Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (71 page)

 
          
“Our
flight suits have no rank or insignia, they’re civilian cut, not military. All
flight suits look the same anyway. And everyone flying in the western
hemisphere uses American charts—the Russians are probably one of biggest
subscribers to U. S. National Oceanographic Service government charts—”

 
          
“My
Russian’s lousy. Yours is worse. We’ll never pull this off.”

 
          
“Come
on, where’s the old can-do? Besides, English is the flyer’s universal language.
My Russian is good ... or bad . . . enough to pass myself off as someone else,
like a Pole or a
Czech.
I can be a crew chief or a security guard and just follow orders and
keep quiet. You humor the guy, show him around the cockpit.”

 
          
“Well,
what if it doesn’t work? What if they lock us up or shoot us and take our
plane?”

 
          
“Then
it’s up to the F-lll raid and the Black Hawk. This was a risky mission from the
start. But I’d say we’d have no chance if we’re forced to shoot it out ...”

 
          
They
both knew the odds were long, but the options were bad and lousy. “If we act
like indignant pissed-off Russians we might be able to get away with it—”

 
          
“This
is crazy, sir, it’ll never work.”

 
          
McLanahan
could see Powell check his instrument panel. The MiGs were already nudging him
to the right, and Powell could do nothing else but follow. “I guess we
might
be able to pull it off, but I’ll
be mighty happy when that F-lll shows up.”

 
          
“All
right, Roland, go ahead and follow them.” McLanahan began typing on the
keyboard, relaying their situation to headquarters.”

 
          
“By
the way, sir, I don’t use the name Roland. I go by J. C.”

 
          
“J.
C.? What’s that stand for?”

 
          
As
if in reply Powell suddenly heeled sharply up and over to the left and executed
another tight combination aileron/barrel roll over the MiG that had been on his
left wing. In the blink of an eye Powell was now flying in perfect formation
with the Russian-made fighters, just off the left wing of the second MiG. The
pilot of the second MiG gave Powell an appreciative wave, which Powell quickly
returned.

           
McLanahan’s reaction was: “Jesus
Christ, Powell . .

 
          
And,
so saying, realized that he had answered his own question.

 
          
The
Cuchillo pilots executed a Navy-like overhead pattern before landing. They and
Powell’s aircraft flew straight down the main runway at five hundred feet altitude,
but instead of using timing to gain aircraft separation, each plane in the
formation executed a tight left mid-way down Verrettes’ main runway at the same
moment, using only the severity of their turn to gain separation. The first
plane pitched out at six Gs, turning so hard that the pilot’s heart, which
normally weighed about five pounds, now weighed
thirty;
the second plane pitched out at four Gs, and Powell pitched
out at two. The result of the variable left pitch-out turn was that each
aircraft was separated by about six seconds after completing a hundred-eighty-
degree turn. As they crossed parallel to the approach-end of the runway, each
lowered his landing gear and flaps, then made another left turn and landed, one
behind the other.

 
          
Powell
used the Sukhoi-27’s unusual ability for high angle-of-attack flight and low
maneuvering speed to land at the very end of Verrettes’
eight-thousand-foot-long runway, stopping the forty-thousand-pound fighter in
less than two thousand feet. He taxied to the nearest perpendicular exit but
did not taxi off the runway—the smugglers would have to block both the runway
and the taxiway to prevent his Sukhoi-27 from departing . . .

 
          
Which
they promptly did. Two Jeeps screeched to a halt directly in front of the fighter,
both carrying three soldiers armed with AK-47 and AK-74 automatic rifles, and a
fuel truck pulled up behind. A third Jeep drove up the taxi way and parked in
the middle of the narrow roadway. Powell’s Sukhoi was surrounded.

 
          
Salazar
climbed out of the Jeep parked on the taxi way and put his fists on his hips
like II Duce, waiting as the Sukhoi-27’s engines were shut down, then moved
toward the Sukhoi. As he did the canopy swung open and the man in the rear
cockpit, still wearing a camouflaged flight helmet with his visor down, aimed a
Uzi submachine gun at the ex-Guban Air Force officer. Guns were immediately
drawn and cocked all around him, but Salazar realized that the Russian crewman
in the back seat would get him before any of his men could return fire. Moving
out in the open was a bad idea, Salazar realized after the fact, but who would
have expected these Russian pilots to carry such weapons?

 
          
“Prerodigh, ”
the Sukhoi pilot called
out, removed his helmet, set it on the canopy sill in front of him and hopped
out onto the canopy rail. This time in English he said, “At ease, everybody.
I’m coming down.” The young pilot climbed down off the Sukhoi-27 and trotted
over to Salazar, extending a hand to him.
“Buenos
dies, senor.
That about exhausts my Spanish, sir. You must be Colonel
Salazar. I am Flight Captain Viktor Peytorvich Charbakov.”

 
          
After
a long moment, Salazar took the pilot’s hand. He was studying the man’s eyes,
his uniform, his mannerisms. He saw the pistol holster on the pilot’s survival
harness—it looked European or even American, not Russian. “You are a pilot in
the Soviet Air Force, Captain Charbakov? What unit?”

 
          
“I’m
afraid I can’t tell you, sir,” Powell told him. “I am assigned to the
Revolutionary Air Forces in
Cuba
. Beyond that, I cannot answer your
questions.”

 
          
“You
fly a Russian fighter but you do not wear a Russian flight suit or use a
Russian flight helmet. Very unusual. It will be necessary to hold you and your
crewman until we receive verification of your identity.”

 
          
“That’s
not very hospitable, Colonel.”

 
          
“You
are on my base. I make the rules here.”

 
          
Powell
shrugged, turning toward McLanahan in the Sukhoi, who still had his Uzi aimed
at Salazar. “That’s fine, Colonel. You do what you like. But if Boris back
there doesn’t make a radio call in five minutes, my squadron comes looking for
me. There’s my wingman in another Sukhoi-27 and two Sukhoi-24 bombers airborne
right now from
Santa Clara
, and a helicopter ground assault team will be airborne behind them.”
Powell folded his arms casually, looking at the growing circle of pilots and
soldiers around Salazar’s Jeep. “Now, you people are good, Colonel. Very good.
But do you really want to mix it up with the
Pedyesyaht-Ahdyen Sukhoputnyye Voyska
and my squadron?”

 
          
Salazar
nodded at that last question. He did indeed recognize the name of the
Fifty-First Shock Troops, the elite Russian marine expeditionary unit assigned
to
Havana
. The strategic mission of the Fifty- First,
apart from its “public” mission as training advisors to the Cuban Army, was to
decimate coastal American defenses and bases in case of a conflict, and to
continue on to destroy communications and transportation lines within the
United States. Salazar knew them as the toughest, best-trained, and
best-equipped military unit in the world—they could sweep through Verrettes’
defenses with their eyes closed.

 
          
The
Russian pilot noticed that Salazar had indeed recognized the name and
importance—and the threat—of the ground-assault unit designated to come to his
rescue, and he put an arm around Salazar’s shoulder, turned him, and gently
steered the exiled Cuban commander to his Jeep. “Now, Colonel, I’d appreciate
it if you moved all those Jeeps off the runway and away from my plane. I’d also
appreciate it if you would sell me a few thousand liters of gas—fully
reimbursable, at whatever price you determine, by the full faith and credit of
the
Soviet Union
, of course.” He could see Salazar's faint
smile—obviously Salazar wouldn’t be averse to making a fat profit from the
Russian military. “Then I’d like to look around your fine base here. In
exchange, I will show you my Sukhoi fighter, and I will debrief your pilots on
our exercise this afternoon. And I trust we may dispense with all this mistrust
and suspicion now.”

 
          
Salazar
swallowed hard. “Of course, Captain. Invite your crewman to come along as
well.”

 
          
“Unfortunately
he has his own tasks to perform. He will remain with the plane. He would have
little appreciation for what we have to discuss in any case.”

 
          
“Why
is that?

 
          
“He
is a Special Forces security officer,” Powell said. “His job is to see to it
that his plane does not fall into the wrong hands. He knows how to operate that
machine gun, the radios and the ejection handles, and little else. If he even
suspected me of defecting or escaping inflight he would shoot me and eject. If
any of your men took one step toward the Sukhoi he would hold you off long
enough to push the button on a destruct mechanism in the plane. The marines
would then have destroyed your base in a follow-up attack.” Powell smiled. “I
may be able to walk away from that plane, Colonel, but my leash is very real.
And now it encircles you and your men as well. I suggest you do as I say.”

 
          
Salazar,
knowing more than a little about the Russian elite force and security people
from his days before exile, tried hard to swallow his earlier doubt. Never mind
glasnost,
the old guard was far from
impotent or defeated. Especially in
Cuba
. And the Soviet Air Force would never allow
an aircraft such as a Sukhoi-27 to fall into enemy hands. They would destroy
everyone and everything around to see that no unfriendly forces got too close.

 
          
The
ex-Cuban officer turned and waved a hand at the Jeeps and trucks bracketing the
Sukhoi-27, and they rolled away immediately. The gun in the hands of the man in
the back seat of the Sukhoi did not waver.

 
          
“Thank
you, Colonel,” Powell told him. “I would like to supervise the refueling and
hear about your base here, and then, as promised, I would be happy to show you
my jet.”

 
          
Salazar
picked up his walkie-talkie and ordered the fuel tank to refuel the Sukhoi-27.
Powell did not understand the words, but the fuel tank parked in back of the
Sukhoi moved quickly to the left side of the advanced Soviet fighter near the
refueling/ground-service panel. Powell directed the ground crew on where the
single-point refueling port and fuel-tank valves were located, then began a
walk around of the jet with Salazar while it was being refueled. The man in the
aft cockpit stayed put even during the refueling. “He does not care that the
plane could explode any second if there is an accident?” Salazar asked,
motioning to McLanahan.

 
          
“He
doesn’t understand about accidents and refueling. He understands his orders,
that’s all.” Powell paused, then asked, “So. You have two MiGs and a couple of
other planes. Is this a detachment of the Haitian Air Force or . . . something
else?”

 
          
“You
understand the need for secrecy on my part as well as your own, Captain. We are
indeed part of the Haitian reserve militia. Their government is very unstable,
as you know, but more than that I cannot tell you. We too have our orders. We
are a very well- equipped unit, fortunate enough to have acquired considerable
aircraft and weapons. We are not, I assure you, any threat to
Cuba
.
Cuba
is my birthplace. It is sacred to me.”

 
          
“I
understand. But how does a militia in
Haiti
get such weapons when the standing Haitian
military does not have them?”

 
          
“We
have need for skilled, fearless pilots, such as yourself, Captain Charbakov,”
Salazar said, a forced smile appearing. “Your skills are impressive. Your
questions, however, show a certain lack of . . . discipline. What was that last
maneuver you accomplished over the runway? I have never seen it before.”

 
          
“The
tail-first flying maneuver? It is called Pougachev’s Cobra,” Powell said. “An
emergency deceleration technique. The alpha limiters on the Sukhoi-27 are
deactivated to allow flight at up to one hundred twenty degrees angle-of-attack
for brief moments.”

 
          
“Have
you ever considered a flying career in
Haiti
, Captain? We are very well paid by our
clients—our government. You would command our training unit, second in command
to myself and my aide, Field Captain Hermosa there.”

 
          
“It
is a tempting offer, Colonel.” They watched as the refueling lines were
disconnected and the fuel truck moved off the runway. “I thank you for the
fuel. Now, I would like to meet with your pilots, if I may.”

 
          
Salazar
nodded, then motioned to Hermosa. “Stay with the fighter.”

 
          
Powell
glanced at McLanahan in the Sukhoi’s cockpit. He was still standing there, the
Uzi in his right hand now aimed upward away from Salazar. It appeared he had
not moved, but Powell immediately saw that McLanahan was holding onto the
headrest on the forward seat with three fingers of his left hand visible in a
prearranged signal. Three minutes until the F-lll showed up. Ten minutes after
that, if they weren’t airborne, the MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter from Hurl- burt
Field in
Florida
with a dozen Air Force Special Operations
troops would attack the base in an attempt to rescue them. At least that was
the plan.

 
          
Powell
didn’t want to stray too far from the flight line, but Salazar was already
motioning him to a seat in his Jeep and he had no choice but to follow. He took
a seat in the front, Salazar and another soldier in the back seat.

 
          
He
had climbed into the Jeep and they had started away from the flight line when
Powell noticed a covered truck screech to a halt at the far end of the aircraft
parking ramp. Several armed soldiers jumped out and began taking positions
behind the truck, concealing themselves from McLanahan in the Sukhoi. Powell
put a hand on the doorway of the Jeep to help himself jump free, but he felt a
hard object placed roughly on the back of his head.